


Forbidden

by orlesiantitans



Series: 100 Themes [29]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlesiantitans/pseuds/orlesiantitans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair knows it’s forbidden. He stares at the boy from the side of the garden, propped up against a pillar, head pounding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

Alistair knows it’s forbidden. He stares at the boy from the side of the garden, propped up against a pillar, head pounding.

He doesn’t like to think of his child. But perhaps the chance of imminent death is making him feel solemn, sentimental. Despite his claims to Morrigan of imagining something terrifying, he never had- in the moments he allowed himself time to think about the baby. He hadn’t imagined a boy- always a girl, with her mother’s dark hair and his sense of humor driving Morrigan up the wall. And it made him laugh- imagining Morrigan stuck with a mini-him despite having seemingly escaped him.  But instead there is this boy, solemn in a way he’d never been, book on his lap, sitting a short way away.

He’d spoken to Morrigan earlier, joking, trying to deny the feelings stirring inside him. Despite the fact he’d never had a desire to see the boy in the past- or perhaps he’d buried it inside, denied it- despite the fact he’d hated Morrigan- feelings that have been tempered by years into something akin to ‘respect’- he suddenly wishes for a life he’d never had. Living near them (not with them, despite the years he couldn’t actually bear close proximity to Morrigan), perhaps teaching the little boy how to use a sword, taking him out on his shoulders to see some of the sights, being the father he hadn’t been. Instead, he has this- this bastard child, the one thing he never wanted to bring into the world. Another him, despite the similarities ending with his nose and mouth on that serious little face.

But he’s alive, thanks to this boy, thanks to Morrigan. And part of him still marvels at the fact he had a part in the creation of another human, despite that being the only contribution he’d had to the boy’s life.

He staggers to sit with a long breath as the song comes back with force, his attempts at pushing it down in vain. His fingers shoot up to his forehead, breaths heavy and labored. He looks up with a different pair of eyes- the eyes of a dying man. Because even if it’s now or twenty years from now, or never (if his friend is to be believed) he will die. He has always known it, but this makes it more real, somehow. He closes his eyes against a fresh wave of pain, and reminds himself that asking to be a part of the boy’s- of _Kieran’s_ \- life would only be cruel. If he dies, he-

“You are my father.”

The voice is small, but wise, old beyond its’ years. Alistair looks up in surprise, and Kieran stares back. And perhaps that is another of his influences- those eyes, golden-brown, darker than Morrigan’s, lighter than his, and older than both of them. The words that leave the boy’s mouth are not a question, and he stops himself from starting, glancing up and seeing Morrigan watching them- lips thin, brows drawn, but not looking ready to turn him into a frog.

Small mercies.

There’s no point denying it, and he wants to agree, but instead what comes out is, “And how in the Maker’s name do you know that?”

In retrospect, he will hit himself for his words. The first thing he says to his son makes him sound like he’s freaked out by him (and perhaps he is, a little, but the last time he saw him he was a fucking _dragon_ , and trying to destroy the world, so…).

“Our blood is old. Like the elves, but different. Only a bit elf.”

Alistair frowns a little more. ‘Only a bit elf’? He supposes it could be possible that there is some elven blood somewhere up the line, on his mother’s side, but… well, he knows nothing of the woman that bore him. He reaches to his neck for a moment, feels the chain that goes beneath his armor at all times, and then pulls it back down, regarding the boy with soft eyes.

“Well, since we’re a bit elf, I suppose it wouldn’t matter if we climbed up that tree and gave your mother a bit of a fright, hm? After all, that’s what elves do, isn’t it? Climb up trees?”

(If Tabris ever finds out about this, he will be found mysteriously killed with knives sticking out of him, but she’s elsewhere, so he figures he’s safe for now.)

The boy grins (and there, that’s him, that’s all him) and they spend the next hour hiding in a tree and giggling. Morrigan’s attempt to find them is half-hearted at best, and he figures she knows exactly where they are, but it’s a bonding moment regardless- and he promises himself that if he survives Adamant, he will be back for this remarkable little boy.

* * *

Fiona sits in the library, book on her lap. She has a lot of time for reading, these days, doing some work for the Inquisitor when asked, but spending most of her time doing it for enjoyment. She hums under her breath as she does so, a half-forgotten hymn, flicking through the pages of the thick tome, not looking up until she hears another footfall. Heavier than Dorian’s usual step, and lacking the usual flair the other mage seemed to put into literally everything he did. She glances up, and her eyes stick. His father immediately comes to mind- he even walks as Maric does. He stumbles a little as he gets in, face twisting slightly in pain, and he heart stops.

Surely, he cannot be experiencing his Calling already? They cannot take her son so quickly, _Maker, no…_

But it fades just as fast, and she relaxes a little. He steps towards the bookcase, and frowns at the tomes. She notices a leaf in his hair, resists the urge to pick it out and scold him as she has imagined doing many times. In those dreams, however, he was but a young boy, scrambling up trees with scraped knees and scuffing his toes on the ground as she tells him off.

He’s a grown man now, and doing so would only scare him away. She stands, gathers her courage.

“Warden Alistair,” she begins. “I-”

He glances over in confusion, only to smooth it over with an inquisitive, polite mask.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona, I presume?” he asks, and the way he uses her title- this boy who had grown within her, who she had birthed and who had nursed from her breast now sees her as a stranger, a face among a crowd of faces. She yearns to tell him. She knows it is too late.

“I– yes. I simply wished to ask if you needed any assistance? Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asks. He smiles and shakes his head, eyes crinkling.

“No, not really. Sometimes when I get bored, I just really want to pick up some old nursery rhyme,” he replies easily, and then shrugs. “Plus, I just met my son, I think it’s time I brush up on my parenting techniques.”

She barely manages to force down a choked noise. _Son?!_ So he is a father. She grips the edge of the bookcase to keep herself from keeling over. She can practically hear what Maric would say to all this, if he were here.

_I’m too young to be a grandfather!_

On this, she agrees- she fancies herself too young to be a grandmother, despite the wrinkles and her age. She likes to pretend she is younger, after all.

“Son?” she asks, and he makes a gesture.

“Long story. Morrigan’s boy.”

There’s more to it, but she knows the child of which he speaks. A quiet boy, serious, lacking the gait and laugh marks that had been on the faces of both his father and grandfather. She nods, looking to the books, saying nothing more of it.

He shrugs, continuing anyway, “Never wanted to bring another bastard into the world, but I figure I can do a better job than my own father did. I’ll be there for him, even if I am ten years late. Should’ve tried to be there from the beginning. Better late than never, I suppose.”

Fiona wonders if he tells strangers all his secrets. Regardless, her heart clenches, but she keeps quiet for a moment later before she speaks.

“Maric would have had you, had your mother not forbidden it,” she says softly, eyes scanning the shelf. “And he would have been so incredibly proud.”

For a moment, Alistair stiffens, before he looks to her, nodding slightly, before catching on something and stiffening further, lips thinning.

“Thank you, Grand Enchanter,” he says, tersely, before leaving. She watches him go- gripping tighter.

 _Coward_. She should have told him.

“He would have been so proud,” she instead whispers as she watches his retreating back. “As I am proud of you. My son.”


End file.
